


Say The Words (Say Them Out Loud)

by GoldenTruth813



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Auror Draco Malfoy, Author Harry Potter, Baking, Blowjobs, Bodyguard, Consent As Dirty Talk, Developing Relationship, Dirty Talk, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Consent, First Time, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, Forced Proximity, HP: EWE, Living Together, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-03-09 09:21:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13478451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/pseuds/GoldenTruth813
Summary: When Draco gets assigned as the Auror to guard Harry Potter day and night, he is sure nothing good will come of it. But as the days go on Draco is forced to evaluate himself and things he thought to be true about Potter and relationships. Sometimes it's not love at first sight. Sometimes, first, it's miscommunication and misunderstanding. A story in which Harry and Draco learn to accept the things they want from themselves and from each other.





	Say The Words (Say Them Out Loud)

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot thank my betas enough for their tireless work helping me navigate through both plot and consent issues, cheering me on when I was unsure, and caring about these characters as much as I did. Without them, this story wouldn't be what it was.

Draco frowns as he quickly scans his surroundings for the fifth time in the last hour, ensuring there are no Muggles around before withdrawing his wand from his pocket and murmuring a quiet _Lumos_ charm.

With his wand held aloft, he glances at the small map clutched in his left hand and sighs. Now that he is quite certain he’s Apparated to the correct location — an Apparition point Robards set up for him at the edge of the county of Worcestershire — he has the arduous task of locating Potter’s fucking _unplottable_ house on the outskirts of the small village of Broadway. In the middle of the night. Dressed like a bloody Muggle. On foot. In bloody freezing September.

Sometimes Draco really, _really_ hates Potter.

He pulls his coat tighter around himself and trudges forward, wondering why Potter lives in a village that looks like something out of a storybook.

Draco is soaked from the rain in minutes; his shoes are covered in mud, and he can no longer feel the tips of his fingers, which makes gripping his wand to cast another _Lumos_ and check he’s heading in the right direction damn near impossible.

Forty-five minutes of searching later and Draco is all but ready to give up, to storm back into the Ministry and quit his job so long as it will get him a warm bed and a strong cup of tea, when he spots a light off in the distance. It only takes a few more minutes of walking before he is close enough to determine that the light is spilling out of a lone house tucked away behind high hedges. Despite the discomfort of his clothes and how cold he is, Draco approaches cautiously, still unsure if he’s found the right place as he walks down the winding, cobbled driveway. He’s fairly certain that this is Potter’s house, since no one else seems to live out here, but eight years as an Auror have taught him to always be vigilant.

He almost begins to doubt that this is Potter’s house as he gets closer; the property looks large enough for someone with as much money as Potter surely has, and the house itself isn't exactly tiny, but even in the dark Draco can see that it’s more than a bit worn down, its brick facade covered in gnarled ivy and the shingled roof appearing to be missing a few pieces. Compared to Malfoy Manor it might as well be a cottage. It is the exact opposite of what Draco expected to find when he’d been given this assignment.

Truth be told, Draco has imagined where Potter lives on more than one occasion, but none of his daydreams came remotely close to this poky, historic English home in the countryside, without a neighbor in sight.

His doubts about having found the right property slip away when he notices the broom leaning up against a shrub by the front door — a familiar Firebolt — and he resolves to just get this over with. Mustering up his resolve, he knocks on the door.

Unfortunately for him, Draco is left standing on the front steps of the house for several long minutes, forcing him to pound his fist relentlessly on the front door when nobody answers. By the time the door is finally pulled open, Draco is pretty sure he looks more like a drowned rat than an experienced Auror—which rather ruins the impression he was hoping to make.

“Potter,” Draco greets, voice completely flat and professional as he attempts to sidestep the other man, desperate to get out of the rain.

Potter, however, just leans against the door frame, his right arm and leg blocking the way, his face unreadable as he stares at Draco. “Hello, Malfoy.”

Before taking this assignment, Draco was debriefed on the six Aurors who had quit after attempting to protect Potter. He’s been thoroughly warned that Potter can be emotional (as if he doesn’t know!), stubborn (like he needs reminding of _that_ ), and powerful (who _doesn’t_ know this already is beyond Draco). So Draco is more than a little surprised to find Potter answering the door in a pair of worn looking flannel pyjama bottoms, his bare feet poking out beneath the too long garment, and a thin, white shirt clinging to the flat expanse of his stomach. The light spilling from inside casts a sort of soft glow upon him, and even in the half light Draco can see the ink stains on Potter’s fingers and his familiar half bitten nails. He looks soft in a way that makes Draco want to run away — for entirely different reasons than his colleagues.

Potter hasn’t changed much in the few months since Draco last saw him, which is unfortunate as far as Draco is concerned because it means Potter is still infuriatingly handsome despite his utter disregard for his appearance. This is honestly going to make his assignment all the more difficult.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in? You always did have abysmal manners, Potter.”

Potter’s hands clench around his mug at Draco’s words. “Why the bloody hell should I invite you in?”

“Because I’m the Auror charged with protecting you, which—”

“I don’t need protecting,” Harry all but growls, and though his voice remains quiet, his tone is sharp.

Draco rolls his eyes in exasperation. “As I was saying before you started to have a hissy fit, I am the Auror tasked by the Minister of Magic and the Head Auror to protect you for foreseeable future, so if you would kindly step aside and allow me access to your humble dwelling it would be greatly appreciated.”

Potter snorts. “And if I don’t?”

Draco has to resist the urge to strangle Potter. “If you don’t then I will be forced to turn up in the Minister’s emergency Floo at one in the morning and explain to her why the great Harry Potter is refusing the security detail she specifically requested. And call me crazy, but I think Granger will be a lot more unhappy with _you_ than me if that happens.”

That seems to get through to him, because Potter takes one step back, a glare on his face as he sips his tea from a hideous Chudley Cannons mug. Draco finds it hard to take his eyes away from Potter’s pink lips against the chipped corner.

“Unless you want me to knock you over, a tad more room would be appreciated, Potter.”

“Help yourself,” Potter replies sarcastically, moving back enough to let Draco through and throwing his arm out dramatically.

“Listen, Potter, I’m not any happier than you about this. If you hadn’t scared off half the Auror Department already in the last few weeks—”

“I don’t know how they made it through training if they skived off that easily,” Potter cuts in, scoffing. “I’m not _that_ scary.”

It’s on the tip of Draco’s tongue to tell Potter exactly how he comes across when he wants to, which is to say that he looks a bit like someone with enough raw power to destroy a Dark Lord and enough attitude to give no fucks about it.

And then there are times like now, with Potter looking too cozy for Draco’s comfort and a bit like an angry crup, all bark and no bite.

Draco swallows the words, pretty sure Potter won’t take it well, and not wanting to get kicked back out in the rain. He decides to try for a different tactic. “They were probably scared off by your hideous sleepwear. It looks... _itchy_.”

Potter flushes a bit at that, looking down at his pyjamas and tugging at them. “They’re soft.”

“Glad to know your one prerequisite for clothing you allow other people to see you in is that it’s soft.”

Potter flips him off in response, blowing a stray strand of hair away from his forehead as he searches Draco’s face for something. “Yeah, well, at least I’m dry,” he retorts. “And warm. Bit more than I can say for you. You look like a drowned ferret.”

Draco closes his eyes and counts to ten, refusing to rise to the bait. He will not lose his job over Potter. “That’s because, as I said, you are an abominable host and haven’t shown me my room yet.”

Harry looks exasperated. “It’s the first room on the right. It’s got an en-suite and there are towels in the bathroom. Goodnight, Malfoy,” he mumbles, voice devoid of malice as he walks away without another word.

Draco watches him go down the hallway, a fleeting sense of disappointment twisting in his stomach that he doesn't want to examine. It’s a familiar sense of rejection, similar to the last time Potter had walked away from him months ago.

He thinks maybe he should hate Potter, but he can’t. He has never been able to.

Draco stands there for a long time after Potter leaves, looking around his well-lived-in home and feeling decidedly out of place as he drips water on the hardwood floors. There are signs of Potter everywhere—from the half-full tea cups on the mantle and the end table, to the stack of Quidditch magazines on the sofa, to the hand knitted blanket thrown over the armchair by the fireplace. The walls are covered in photos of Potter with his friends, and with Teddy.

This is not just a house, this is Potter’s home, and Draco suddenly realises how much harder this will all be. He wants to memorise everything around him, to memorise _Potter_ , while simultaneously wanting to walk back out the front door and never come back.

It is not Draco’s fortitude or courage, however, that propels him down the hallway towards the spare room, but rather his inability to ever do the sensible thing where Potter is involved.

When Draco pushes open the door to the guest room, he expects to find something cold and shabby, especially since the other Aurors had been forced to camp out in the yard. He hadn’t even really expected Potter to let him inside—it’d been a bit of wishful thinking at the sight of Potter’s inviting living room after spending an hour trekking around in the dark, feeling wet and cranky.

But as he steps into a cozy room with a crackling fireplace and a tray of tea and scones sitting besides an ugly red armchair in the corner, Draco has to wonder if Potter really is as angry at Draco’s presence as he seems. There’s a bookshelf crammed with stacks of books, and the duvet has been turned down at the corner, crisp white sheets beckoning him to climb inside and sleep. The fire is roaring, meaning Harry had not let Draco in on a whim, but had prepared this room for him, and the warmth of that discovery seeps into his very bones.

The room looks, upon closer inspection, a bit how Draco always imagined the Gryffindor common room might: inviting and welcoming. Not that he would ever admit that out loud.

Draco eventually forces himself to peel off his wet clothing. He stays in the shower so long that he only gets out once he’s sure he’s used up every drop of hot water, putting on his pyjamas and practically inhaling the tea and lemon scones Potter left him. As his head hits the pillow, he wonders why Potter knows exactly how he likes his tea.

**~*~*~*~*~**

Draco spends a good half hour pacing the small bedroom the next morning, trying to decide whether or not he should thank Potter for the amenities. Luckily for him, though, he’s spared making any decision, because when he finally emerges into the living room—still without a clear idea of how he wants to handle things—Potter is nowhere in sight.

When Draco enters the kitchen there is still no sign of Potter, but there is a plate of eggs and toast under a warming charm and another cup of perfectly sweetened Earl Grey. Beside the plate is a note in Potter’s untidy scrawl that simply reads _I don’t want a lecture from Hermione about starving Ministry employees_.

Draco doesn’t bother to hide his smile since there is no one there to see it. He eats in silence, his eyes taking in the kitchen, which is absolutely nothing like he’d expected last night upon first seeing Potter’s home. While the outside of the house looks old and worn, the inside is bright and airy; crisp white walls with dark cherry floors and perfectly restored wood beams. He wonders if Potter bought the house like this, or renovated it himself.

It’s only as he’s taking his last bite of toast that he realises he can hear voices coming from upstairs. He stills immediately, his toast halfway to his mouth as he tilts his head and strains his ears, trying to identify the voices. His internal debate about being nosy versus respecting his host’s privacy lasts only a few seconds. Because it’s clearly part of his job to know _everything_ going on in Potter’s home. He wouldn’t be doing his official duty to serve and protect if he didn't ensure nothing nefarious was afoot.

So with careful steps, wary of possible creaking floorboards in such an old house, he climbs the stairway. There are only two doors on the top landing and one of them is shut, so he silently casts a Disillusionment charm and peeks inside the open doorway to see Potter on his knees in front of the fireplace, Granger’s face visible as she speaks impassionedly.

“I know you don’t like it, Harry, and I’m sorry. Really I am. But you must understand what it's like for everyone else. I know you don’t—” Granger pauses, worrying her bottom lip and looking concerned. “I know you never understand why you’re so important to other people, but you are. It’s only been a few months since the ten-year anniversary of the battle and people’s emotions are still running high. Such a public threat against you has made people very nervous. It’s my job, not only to truly make us all safe, but to ensure people _feel_ safe. And I know you don’t want to be seen like that, but you matter to so many people even if it's hard for you to admit.”

Draco can see the tension in Potter’s hands as he pulls at his hair. “It was bad enough with the other Aurors. At least they stayed outside and puttered around, mostly minding their own business. I could put up with their obnoxious questions and attempts to strengthen my wards—”

“Which I happen to know you took down the second they put them up,” Hermione cuts in. Her tone sounds chastising but she looks amused.

Draco suppresses a laugh as Potter continues on as if he weren’t just interrupted. “You and I both know no one is going to attack me,” he says. “My house is well protected and these threats always turn out to be nothing. This isn’t the first time we’ve been through this, Hermione, and you’ve never put me under Auror protection before! And fucking Malfoy? Really, Hermione?” He sounds frustrated.

“Harry, it's your own fault for making such a nuisance of yourself. You drove the other Aurors mad within days, dismantling their wards, refusing to tell them which areas of your house had booby traps until they were left hanging upside down caught in one of your wards, and hexing them when they accidentally trampled your roses.” At this Hermione pauses as if collecting her thoughts and Draco is glad no one can see the smirk on his face. “And while I didn’t tell Robards as much, don’t think I don’t know it was you that cast that hex on James Allistor because you heard him saying some less-than-savory things about how I was faring my first term. The reality is, Draco is the only one left who isn’t afraid of you. You’ve developed quite a reputation around the Ministry for being a pain in the arse, Harry, and I’ve got to say they’re not entirely wrong. You make it very difficult for people to help you sometimes.”

Potter sits back on his heels, making a sound of annoyance and crossing his arms. He looks so much like the stubborn teenager Draco remembers from school and much less like the twenty-eight-year-old man he saw at the Ministry Commemoration Ball only a few months prior, dressed to the nines as he gave an impassioned speech about tolerance and continuing to move towards a Wizarding community built on equality. Draco tries very hard not to remember the way Potter had looked in the moonlight that night, the way his lips had curled up in a smile before Draco had kissed him.

“I still don’t understand why I have to _actually_ be under Auror protection. You and I both know it’s a load of rubbish!”

Granger sighs, looking tired. “It was that or move you to a safe house, and we both know you wouldn’t have enjoyed that at all. Robards assures me that his department is very close to catching the leader of this ridiculous Neo-Death Eater group, and while I am fairly sure that you’re right and nothing will come of these threats, for the peace of mind of the Wizarding community _and_ Ron and I, please try to let Draco do his job. You and I both know that whatever faults he may have had, or still has really, he’s a good Auror, Harry. I wouldn’t have let Robards offer him the assignment otherwise. It makes everyone, myself included, feel a bit better knowing there’s someone else trying to watch out for you, since you’re so disinclined to do it for yourself.”

Harry sighs heavily. “Fine.”

“Really?” Granger looks surprised.

“I said alright,” Harry grumbles sounding resigned as he rubs his face with both hands. “I’ll try not to hex him...unless he has it coming. But I didn’t say I would like it!”

Hermione smiles, looking relieved. “I suppose that’ll have to do. At least let him know where the wards are set outside are so he doesn’t trigger them like McKinnon did last week. He was upside down in the dark for four hours, you know.”

Draco can see Potter’s hands clench atop his legs at her words. “Malfoy’s not... it won’t be a problem. He’s sleeping in the guest room.”

Granger’s intake of breath is audible. “You let him _inside_ the house?”

“I thought that was what you wanted!” Potter throws his hands up.

Granger doesn’t respond right away, and Draco wonders why she looks like she’s choosing her words so carefully. “I want you to be safe, Harry. And _happy_. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you. You must know that. It’s all Ron and I have ever wanted for you.”

“Then why did you send _Malfoy_?”

Draco would’ve expected those words to sound angry, not sad.

Granger looks almost remorseful. “You know why, Harry. He was the only one willing to take the assignment, and after what happened at the Ball, well, you said—”

“Forget it. It’s fine. It’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

“I always worry about you, Harry. Just... if you need to talk, Ron and I are always here. You know you can talk to us about anything.”

“I know, Hermione. It’ll be fine, really.”

Granger looks like she wants to say something else but there’s a loud crash in the background and she startles. “Hugo! Oh, Harry, I’m sorry I have to go. We love you!” And then she's gone with a _pop_.

Draco feels a weird sense of guilt at having listened to such a private conversation. He backs away slowly, carefully making his way down the stairs and trying to push away his curiosity at what exactly Potter told Granger about him.

**~*~*~*~*~**

It’s a few hours before Potter makes an appearance downstairs. He’s changed his clothes and is now wearing a well-fitted pair of jeans with a rather distracting hole in one knee and a dark green jumper that makes his eyes look, if possible, even brighter. His feet are no longer bare and instead are covered in a hideous pair of mismatched wool socks, one red with little snitches on it and the other a shocking orange with little broomsticks. He looks tired somehow, and the anger from last night seems to have been replaced by a strange sort of tension in his body that makes him look out of place even though it’s his home.

“Morning,” Potter mumbles, walking towards the stove and tapping the kettle with his wand. It boils immediately. Draco has to look away when Potter reaches towards the top cabinet, his stretch raising up his jumper to reveal an expanse of skin along Potter’s lower back, the curve of his arse highlighted by two small dimples.

“It’s not really morning anymore. It’s well past tea time,” Draco supplies uselessly.

“No, I don’t suppose it is. Right, well, let’s not make this more awkward than it has to be. You don’t have to stay in the kitchen the entire time you’re here, you know.” Harry stops, crossing his arms and looking at Draco in a way that makes his insides squirm. “Though in the future I’d prefer if you didn’t go poking around my entire house trying to make yourself unseen like this morning. You could do the polite thing and just knock, or ask if you want to know something. You don’t need to spy on me.”

Draco feels a flush of shame spread across his neck but refuses to acknowledge it. “How long did you know I was there?”

Potter tenses, turning his back on him. “Not until the very end. When— well it doesn’t matter. I would just appreciate if you didn't do it again. I promised Hermione to make this work and I’m damn well going to try, but don't make me regret it. I thought you were past sneaking around.”

His comment stings and Draco feels his words fly out, faster and sharper than is really fair. “Yeah, well, I’m not the one with secrets to hide, am I?”

Potter slams his mug down on the counter, turning around to face Draco again, his eyes blazing with anger. “I don’t have fucking secrets. I just would prefer not to be spied on. Which is exactly why I didn’t let anyone else in my house. I don’t need to be watched!”

“Then why exactly did you let _me_ in?” Draco knows he’s pushing his luck, but he’s never been able to hold his tongue, at least not around Potter. Which is precisely why he’d refused to speak to him after what happened before. He’d known the moment he accepted this assignment he was fucked.

“I am beginning to wonder that myself.” And with that Potter stalks out of the room, his tea forgotten.

Draco almost goes after him, but his pride won’t allow it. Instead, he spends the rest of the day outside, checking the perimeter and all of Potter’s wards, careful not to trigger any of them. It all seems to be going according to plan, until he’s just about to head back inside, his stomach rumbling with hunger and the biting wind seeping into his bones now that the sun has set. He’s just contemplating whether Potter will still make him tea, even though he’s clearly in a mood, when he trips over a hole in the grass and tumbles forward gracelessly. He’s only glad Potter isn’t there to see him get a face full of grass. Or at least he thinks he’s happy to be alone, that is, until he feels a strange sensation pulling at his belly button that tingles down his legs before he feels himself floating into the air, dangling upside down as his wand clatters to the ground just out of reach.

“Well, _fuck_.”

Draco has no idea how long he hangs upside down. The only thing he can be sure of is that it’s long enough that all of the blood is rushing to his head and it’s beginning to make him feel a bit lightheaded. He’s not sure how much longer he can remain conscious.

Draco is so intent on trying not to black out that he doesn’t even notice Potter is approaching until he’s standing directly in front of Draco.

“You know for supposedly needing to protect _me_ , you Auror sorts sure seem to need my help a lot.”

If Draco weren’t absolutely positive he needed Potter’s help, he would have a much more sarcastic response, but instead he just closes his eyes and whispers, “Please let me down, Potter.”

Something in his tone must get through to Potter, who doesn’t say another word or test Draco’s patience. Draco hears an unfamiliar spell being mumbled before he comes crashing down to the ground with an audible groan. Draco doesn’t even bother trying to move, just lies there on his back staring at Potter, who is looking down at him almost as if he’s never seen him before.

“Do you need help?”

The offer surprises Draco, but he shakes his head, unable to bear needing the other man for anything in this moment. He ignores the chill seeping through his robes. “I am a fully capable Auror and I can take care of myself just fine.”

“Merlin, you’re such a stubborn fuck.”

“Takes one to know one,” Draco mumbles defiantly.

Potter looks exasperated. “Fine, if you’re determined to be such an arse, dinner is on the table, whenever you drag yourself in. You can eat alone for all I care,” he shouts, storming back towards the house.

It is a long time before Draco drags himself back inside, and even longer before he is able to swallow the food past the lump in his throat.

**~*~*~*~*~**

The next two days don’t so much pass as drag slow as a fucking snail.

Neither Potter’s nor Draco’s mood improves after the rather embarrassing warding incident, which Draco does his best to wipe from his memory completely. Potter seems to have taken Draco’s refusal of help as a personal affront and barely comes out of the other second-floor bedroom. And despite his best attempts, Draco still has no idea what exactly is in there, or what Potter does all day locked up in there alone.

Draco knows his own attitude isn’t really much better. His feelings are a mess of anger, confusion, embarrassment, and wounded pride, which does little to help his mood. The few times Potter does come out for tea or food, he and Draco inevitably ended up snapping at each other until Draco is quite certain he is going to lose his mind.

He’d sworn when he took the assignment he could be professional and put the memory of Potter’s lips, and whatever they might have once been, behind him.

The problem is that Draco knows, without a shred of doubt, that Potter is trying his best to stay out of Draco’s way, which is so absurd and so unlike Potter that it simply makes Draco even more annoyed at him. Only Potter would be more concerned about his unwanted house guest’s comfort than his own.

And only Potter could manage to make Draco angry at _himself_ for being angry at Potter.

Fucking Potter.

**~*~*~*~*~**

“Where exactly are you going?” Draco asks, looking up from the report he’s filling out at the coffee table.

Potter stops, his hand poised just above the jar of Floo powder. “I have somewhere I have to be today. Not that you need to be bothered about it. I won’t be gone long.” His tone is short. It’d been short all morning. Not that Draco can blame him, really. Draco has been winding Potter up since the moment he’d woken up—he can’t seem to help himself. Once he’d realised Potter was trying to ignore him, something deep and locked away had awoken. Being in the same room as Potter and being unacknowledged makes Draco feel like he is going to crawl out of his skin.

Draco rises to stand, moving beside him. “Actually it _is_ my job to bothered about where you’re going. You know you’re supposed to give me twenty-four hours notice before leaving the house so I can scout the location and ensure it’s safe. You agreed to full security measures when you signed off on the Auror protection agreement.”

Potter sighs. “Well, it was a last minute booking. I have to go. It’s for work.”

“You work?” Draco asks, unable to hide his surprise.

“Let me guess, you thought all I did was laze around, mooching off the money I earn from a few public speaking engagements and my parent’s inheritance?” Potter asks irritably.

Truthfully, that’s pretty close to what Draco assumed. On the rare occasion he has actually seen Potter their interactions have always been brief, filled with the politest of conversation and a level of sexual tension he feels quite certain is not one-sided. However they’ve never got far enough to reveal anything meaningful, and Draco realises suddenly how little he knows about Potter now.

“So, where do you work then?”

“It’s not exactly a ‘where.’ I’m a—” Potter hesitates, squaring his shoulders and continuing, “I’m a writer. I write children’s books. Muggle children’s books.” The last bit is added on, almost like a challenge.

Draco’s mind goes immediately to the bookshelves stuffed to the brim in every room of the house, and he wonders if Potter wrote any of them. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Potter?”

“It’s not hard to surprise someone who won’t get to know you.” His tone is biting, but even Draco can see there’s more to it than that.

“Fuck you,” Draco answers, grabbing his own handful of Floo powder. Potter doesn’t get to look at him like a kicked crup, not after hurting _him_. “Where are we going?”

Harry looks a bit pleased at having riled him up, which only serves to make Draco even madder.

“Well, if you’re coming with me you better change. You’ll never pass for a Muggle in that.”

Draco looks down at his Auror uniform and bristles. Despite the fact Muggle clothing has become more popular recently, he’s never quite stopped preferring robes.

Twenty minutes later, Draco, now dressed in a pair of trousers and a Muggle shirt is once again standing beside Potter in front of the fireplace. Potter looks just as unhappy about the situation as Draco, which is the only consolation in the entire thing. Potter gives Draco the name of the Floo connection and leaves him behind without a second glance. When Draco comes through the Floo just a minute later, it’s to see Potter striding out the door of the small room that houses the Floo connection, a discreetly designed location hidden amongst the other storefronts in this part of London. Draco runs after him, watching as Potter strides away quickly down the pavement by himself, pulling his jacket up around his neck in a vain attempt to block out the chill.

“Potter! For Merlin’s sake, would you wait?!” Draco shouts, his annoyance growing at having to keep up.

“Oh, so you did come,” Harry replies, not sparing Draco a look when he falls into step beside him. “I wasn’t sure. Thought perhaps you’d pretend I didn’t exist again.”

“Pretend you— But that was entirely your—”

“Forget it. You were right. It was a mistake. I shouldn’t have brought it up. This is it,” Potter tells him, nodding to a small bookshop sandwiched between a French bakery and a tea house. The sign above it reads _Magical Moon’s Books and Gifts_. Without a glance backward, Potter goes inside.

Secure in his knowledge that Potter clearly doesn’t care if Draco follows him inside, he waits on the busy pavement for a few minutes, trying to make sense of Potter’s words. He discreetly checks the premises for spells or dark magic and sets up an anti-apparition ward, conscious of the Muggles present, before pushing the door open. There is a bell above the door that jingles and he hears a familiar, ethereal voice cheerily saying, “Welcome to Magical Moon’s Books and Gifts how can I— Oh, hello, Draco.”

Draco stops dead in his tracks, a face he hasn’t seen in years but would recognize anywhere. “Hello, Luna.”

He wonders how many more surprises he’s destined to encounter today. At this point, he feels like he wouldn’t even be surprised if Weasley drove straight through the window of the bookshop in one of those stupid Muggle cars, just like he and Potter had done back in second year.

“Are you here for Harry’s reading? The children are so excited. I know he wasn’t going to work with everything going on, but one of my favourite customers just got out of the hospital. He’s had cancer, horrible Muggle disease really, and he just loves Harry’s book, and when I told Harry about it well of course he wanted to come in for the release of his new book today. It’s been so long but you look well, Draco.”

There are a million questions swirling through his brain, but the only one that comes out is a choked, “You run a Muggle bookshop?”

Luna doesn't look offended at the abrupt question, instead she looks almost excited as she moves closer to stand right by Draco. She leans in to whisper, “Well there’s something rather beautiful about Muggles, isn’t there? They want so much to believe in magic even though they have none. Muggle children are especially creative, they have the most wonderful ideas about flying and magic and dragons and castles, and will you believe they’ve never seen them and they still believe! It’s quite exciting.”

“You feel like you belong,” Draco murmurs, afraid he’s spoken too freely, but Luna practically beams.

“Oh yes. I’m not always here of course. I love magic too much to stay away for long, but it’s rather marvelous to bring a bit of magic to those who’ve never had any. And what better magic is there than books?”

“And Potter... he comes _here_?”

Luna nods, pointing over to the corner of the bookshop where Potter is sitting cross-legged on a small stage in the corner. The wall behind him is painted in a beautiful mural that is an exact replica of Hogwarts, a familiar white owl soaring up towards the ceiling. There are children sitting on the floor in front of him, some in their parents’ laps and some atop colourful cushions, all staring at Potter with rapt attention. Draco can’t hear Potter, but there is a book in his hands he is reading from, a look of relaxed enjoyment on his face as he reads.

“I did the paintings myself,” Luna says proudly.

“They’re lovely, Luna.”

“Harry helped me start this place. After the war — well after he quit the Aurors really — he was lost for a while too. I think he thought if he helped me find my place it might help him find his.”

Draco is glad Luna doesn’t seem to expect a response because he isn’t sure what to say to that. He just stares at Potter as he turns the pages of the book, gracing the children with another bright smile. Draco absolutely refuses to allow himself to think about what it felt like the last time that smile had been directed at him.

“He’s quite handsome, isn’t he? I think a lot of the mums, and some of the dads, really, quite enjoy when Harry does a book reading. Perhaps even more than the children.” Luna laughs easily, as if were just a fact that almost everyone is attracted to Potter regardless of gender. Which he supposes they are, but it isn't something he generally likes to admit out loud, so he makes a small noise that Luna seems to take as an agreement.

“You should sit. Harry has a lovely reading voice, sometimes some of the children even fall asleep.” And then she’s gone before he can reply, already helping another customer and leaving Draco standing awkwardly in the middle of the bookshop.

“Right, let Potter read to me. Sure,” he mumbles to himself, rubbing at the back of his neck and walking closer to the group gathered together. He moves off to the side, standing behind a woman bouncing a small toddler, hoping he won't be noticed there.

Someone, a rather small someone, notices him immediately and reaches their spit-soaked fingers out towards Draco, who recoils a bit, bumping into the wall beside him.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” the woman apologises, shifting the baby to her other hip and looking embarrassed.

“It’s quite alright,” he lies, having never been entirely comfortable about children. Not even when he was one.

“Are you here for the story? His books are just wonderful. Both my children adore them. He’s so friendly too. Do you have children?”

Draco feels a bit taken aback, wondering if all Muggle parents are this chatty with strangers. “Ah, no I’m here with—” He trails off, nodding towards Potter, unsure what to call him.

“Of course, well we never stay around after to chat when he’s done. It’s nap time, you know, but we can never miss one of his book releases. Please tell Mr. James we just love his books. It’s the only way my Addie will fall asleep at night. We know them all by heart.” She nods to the older child leaning on her elbows near the stage and watching Potter with a sense of a wonder across her tiny face.

 _Mr. James_ , Draco wonders, startled from his musings when a little boy near him loudly yells, “Please read another one!” as Potter closes the first book. Draco isn’t surprised to see Potter smile at the interruption, reaching into his bag and pulling out a different story.

“I suppose I could manage _one_ more book,” he answers kindly, almost teasingly, the corner of his lips turning up as he holds it up. “This one is new. Would you all like to be the first ones to hear it?” His voice holds a kind of gentleness that Draco has never heard.

A chorus of tiny voices cheering “yes” makes Potter laugh, and Draco has the sudden desire to run far, far away because the longer he watches the scene before him the less likely he thinks he will be able to leave this behind; to leave Potter behind.

Draco reads the title, _Snuffles the Friendly Dog_ , taking in the picture of the shaggy black dog on the front, his stomach dropping as he makes the connection. Everyone knew about Sirius Black now, and though his innocence had never technically been proven the story had become public knowledge a few years after the war.

Harry begins to read, but there is a strange buzzing noise in Draco’s ears making it hard to focus on the details as Potter’s commanding voice fills the room, telling the story of a little boy who is lonely and invents an imaginary dog that accompanies him on great adventures.

There is a broad smile on Potter’s face, but he is gripping the book tightly, and Draco is quite certain no one else has noticed the subtle change in his body language. By the time he finishes there’s a flush to his cheeks and Potter ducks his head at the clapping, rising to his feet. Draco backs away slowly to the other side of the store, never taking his eyes off the way Potter kneels down to talk to all of the children.

It’s quite a long time before the children and parents begin to leave. Draco almost walks over to Potter as he packs up his things, but he has no idea what he would say, so he stays quiet.

Draco knows the protocol, knows he’s supposed to follow Potter _everywhere_ whether he likes it or not, but something about the tightness in Potter’s shoulders as he passes Draco without a word stops him. He thinks that perhaps he can give him at least a few minutes alone before following him.

Unfortunately, when he emerges back into the sunlight the pavement is full of people passing him by, and Potter is nowhere in sight.

With a growing sense of anxiety, Draco begins to run, knocking into a few Muggles in his haste to get back to the Floo connection three streets over. He was not supposed to lose Potter. He bursts inside, disappointed though not surprised to find it empty and grabs a handful of Floo powder, heading straight towards Potter’s house. Draco dusts himself off as he steps into Potter’s living room, immediately murmuring _Homenum Revelio_. Disappointment floods his system when nothing happens, though he is not at all surprised that Potter is not there. He hadn’t truly expected him to be.

Two hours later, Draco’s stomach feels like it might explode from the amount of tea he’s consumed. He’s just about convinced himself to contact Granger when he hears the Floo in the living room flare up. He nearly knocks his chair over in his haste, prepared to rip Potter a new one, when he takes one look at Potter’s face and stops, his anger fizzling into something almost paralyzing.

Potter looks vulnerable. He shifts on his feet, seemingly even more uncomfortable than Draco as he opens his mouth to speak. “Do you... want some tea?”

“I think I’ve had enough fucking tea to last me a lifetime.” Draco knows it's meant to be a peace offering, but there’s enough anger still simmering beneath the surface that he can’t take it, not yet.

“Right.” Potter shoves his hands in his pockets, a sort of nervous energy bouncing off of him.

Draco almost hates himself for the words that fall out of his mouth. “I haven’t had any _food_ yet.”

Potter perks up at that, his eyes impossibly large as he bites his bottom lip. “I make pretty good pasta. And I have wine.”

Draco huffs. He’d meant to hold out much longer, but he loves pasta. Potter knows he loves pasta. “What about bread rolls?”

“I think I can manage that.” Potter’s lips begin to turn up, it's not a smile but perhaps the beginnings of one; the beginnings of _something_.

**~*~*~*~*~**

That night Draco falls asleep feeling more at ease than he has in a very long time.

Dinner had been, much to his shock, exceedingly pleasant. More than pleasant really. Truthfully it had been a little awkward at first; Draco sitting in the kitchen watching Potter cook, unsure how to handle seeing Potter in such a scene of domesticity. Neither of them were entirely sure how to navigate polite conversation after days of nothing but snapping at each other. This was not an attempt to earn a reaction with cutting barbs nor was it a fleeting fancy of flirtation to see who might rise to the challenge. It was simply an attempt to talk, to exist; to get to know each other in a way they had never attempted, even if they didn't quite hit upon any hard life topics — at least not at first.

And yet when Potter set the food down on the table, refilling Draco’s wine glass for a third time, Draco had found his defenses lowering as Potter slid into the seat across from him. He wore an open look of curiosity and something Draco was almost scared to acknowledge that looked dangerously close to anticipation on his face as he’d asked after him. It’d been on the tip of Draco’s tongue to reply that he’d had a shitty few months since Potter had taken him home, since he’d kissed Draco until he was close to tears with desperation, only to simply _leave_. And while Draco had been too drunk to remember much the next morning, he’d remembered enough to know Potter hadn’t come in, hadn't stayed; that when Draco had so blatantly offered himself, Potter had not wanted Draco back.

But Draco didn’t say any of that, choosing instead to focus on the things in his life he did enjoy.

And the more he talked, the more Potter seemed to relax as well, answering Draco’s questions with a sort of blunt honesty only the other man could make look effortless, as if his truths were meant to be shared and not hoarded away like dirty secrets.

They sat there for hours, the candles on the table burnt down to nothing and the bottle of wine long ago emptied. As the darkness crept over them, they’d delved into deeper conversation, and Draco had been shocked at his willingness to share confidences with Potter as well. The wine helped of course, but Draco was sober enough to know that it was something in Potter’s countenance that had him wanting to share things about himself he’d never said aloud and that it wasn’t just the alcohol swirling through his system.

Potter had looked at him so earnestly when Draco’d spoken of his shame and regret about his past that he’d had to close his eyes, unable to bear the sense of understanding he’d felt in Potter’s eyes as his hand slid across the table and his fingers brushed across Draco’s. It almost would have been easier to feel judged, because feeling understood made Draco want things he had spent a long time telling himself he did not need.

By the time Draco had sleepily walked down the hallway, he’d known with certainty that he was completely and utterly fucked. Potter was, much to Draco’s chagrin, charming. He was also a considerate host when he wasn’t passively aggressively making Draco crazy, a much better cook than he let on, and his dry sense of humour and self-deprecating sarcasm was exactly the kind of thing Draco found overwhelmingly attractive in a man. Which meant that Draco could no longer hold on to the delusion that the rejection he felt before was simply wounded pride. It was more, so much more.

Despite it all, though, they hadn’t mentioned the night of the Ministry ball. Not once. They’d danced around it as if the subject was made of fire, only Draco wasn’t sure which one of them was scared of being burned.

Which, as Draco’s head hits the pillow, is an entirely new problem of its own because Draco is absolutely certain that Potter is attracted to him, too. Hell, he even seems to enjoy Draco’s company as much as Draco enjoys his (which is pretty fucking obvious since the other man is about as subtle as a Bludger). But all that does is confuse Draco more. Because if this thing, whatever the hell it is, that they are on the cusp of is so mutual, then why had Potter walked away from it before? Why had Potter walked away from _him_?

**~*~*~*~*~**

Draco awakens with a start at the sound of a crash, his hand outstretched and grasping at his wand on the bedside table before he’s even got his eyes open — an instinct left over from the war that has served him well as an Auror. _Constance Vigilance_ they’d tried to instill in him during training, and all he’d wanted to shout back was that his entire life had prepared him for what evil looked like.

There’s another loud crash followed by a yell that definitely sounds like Potter, and Draco is out of the bed and sprinting down the hallway without a second thought, adrenaline pulsing through his veins. He’d known there was a small chance the threats were real, no matter how many times Potter insisted they were nothing, and his insides turn to ice at the thought of something actually happening to him. The way Potter had looked over dinner last night, relaxed and smiling, almost hopeful, flashes before his eyes and makes his blood run cold.

Draco skids to a stop in the doorway, his wand held aloft in the air and his chest tight, not from exertion but fear. His fear, however, rapidly changes to confusion. There is no perpetrator or dark wizard. There is no emergency and no one needs rescuing. There is only Potter standing in the middle of his kitchen, shirtless with his obnoxiously soft-looking plaid pyjama bottoms. He’s got his thumb in his mouth, sucking on it and wincing.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Draco doesn’t mean to sound as sharp as he does, but his heart is still pounding in his chest.

Potter’s head shoots up at his voice and he startles, looking almost abashed. “I, um — that is to say...I’m making muffins.”

Draco still doesn’t drop his wand, pointing it stupidly at Potter as if his bare skin and dark, pert nipples might suddenly attack. “You’re _baking_?” Potter nods. “It’s half past two. In the morning. Why in Merlin’s name are you baking?”

If possible, Potter looks even more uncomfortable now, almost nervous. “I bake. When I can’t sleep, I mean. It’s... I like the monotony of it, just following the recipes and not having to think. And then when I’m done I have something to show for it, something I made. Don’t you ever just, I don’t know... want to do something that makes you forget about everything else?”

Draco wants to be outraged about being awoken at such a ridiculous hour — and especially at being made to feel so fearful for Potter’s well being — but he can’t muster the energy to resent him, not when he understands so acutely what Potter means.

With a grumble Draco finally lowers his wand. “Do you always make so much bloody _noise_ when you bake?”

“Uh, no. I’m sorry about that. I burnt my hand on the muffin tin.” Potter gestures towards the tin he’d dropped near his bare feet, then holds up his left hand to show off a nasty looking burn. There are muffins scattered across the floor, and even in the dim light Draco can see Potter’s thumb and forefinger are painfully red.

Draco moves closer, watching as Potter stills and his eyes go wide. He seems to suddenly realise that Draco, too, is dressed in his nightclothes, and the corner of his lip twitches. Draco doesn’t think he looks very sorry.

“Does it hurt?” Draco asks.

Potter shrugs, making a grimace at the same time which really negates his words. “Just a little bit.”

“You certainly made a lot of racket for something that only hurt a little bit.” Draco inches closer, closing the remaining distance between them before reaching out and taking Potter’s hand in his own, turning it over and stroking his thumb over the blistered burn. “As the Auror assigned to protect you, it’s my job to ensure that no harm befalls you under my care.”

Potter’s hand closes into a fist at his words, his voice taking on an uneven tilt. “Is that the only reason you care?”

Draco closes his eyes, swallowing down his gut reaction to lie, to hide the truth. “ _No_.”

That seems to be the right answer, because Potter relaxes again, unclenching his hand. Draco eyes him for a long moment before whispering a fairly basic healing spell he’d been taught during his first year of Auror training, watching as the skin returns to its normal colouring, the puckering disappearing and a look of relief spreading across Potter’s face.

“Thanks,” Potter whispers.

Draco feels as if his heart is beating loud enough that surely Potter must be able to hear it. “Anytime.”

Potter takes one step closer, then another, until there is almost no space between them. The heat radiates off his body making Draco feel flushed. “Can I ask you something?” he whispers.

“You just did.”

Potter smiles, a subtle twitch to his hands as if he’s stopping himself from reaching out towards Draco. “Wanker. Fine, can I ask you something else?”

“Yes.”

Potter inches nearer, his face impossibly close and his breath ghosting across Draco’s cheek. “Can I kiss you?” he murmurs.

Draco can only nod, which seems to be permission enough for Potter. Draco can feel Potter’s smile against his mouth as he brushes their lips together, pressing his chest to Draco’s and wrapping his left arm around him and pulling closer. Potter’s lips are warm and soft, and Draco’s mind flashes back to the last time they’d done this, tightening his own hold on Potter, almost afraid he might walk away again. But Potter doesn’t, he just matches Draco’s movements, his own hand squeezing Draco’s hip as he kisses him until they’re breathless.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” Potter confides, resting his forehead against Draco’s.

“Merlin, you’re going to be the death of me, Potter.”

Potter has the audacity to smile at him, the fucking wanker, nudging Draco’s nose with his own as he whispers, “I’d rather make you feel alive.”

Draco lets out a choked sob, his fingers digging into the warm, muscled flesh of Potter’s back as he pulls him against his body, groaning when he feel’s Potter’s cock pressing firmly into his hip.

“Fuck,” Potter groans, his own hands clenched in the silk fabric of Draco’s pyjamas. Draco expects Potter to rut up against him, to shove a warm hand down the front of his pants. He wants to feel Potter’s strong fingers wrap around his cock. Instead Potter looks like he’s stopping himself, sending a strange prickle of insecurity through Draco. He’s used to people, men especially, taking what they want in the bedroom.

Potter clearly wants him, if the rock-hard cock against his hip and the shuddering way Potter is kissing him is any indication. And yet, Potter’s hands remain firmly above his waist.

“I want... fuck, I want to touch you,” Potter huffs into his mouth.

“Are you waiting for a bloody invitation?” Draco snaps, his own hand already sliding down beneath the waistband of Potter’s bottoms.

But Potter stills at Draco’s words, pulling out of the kiss to look at Draco. Draco groans in frustration, already missing the way Potter feels pressed against him.

“I don't want an invitation, Malfoy.”

“Well then what the bloody hell do you want?”

“I want to know you want this too.”

Draco sighs. “Was my hard cock and mouth on yours not enough of an indication?”

Potter looks almost hurt. “No.”

“ _No_?” Draco echoes.

Potter takes another step back, a step _away_ , and something painful tightens in Draco’s chest and makes him want to lash out. Potter begins to speak but Draco doesn’t listen, just begins to shake his head. He will not let Potter walk away from him again, at least not first. He hears Potter calling after him but Draco doesn’t listen, just heads straight to his room and slams the door, casting a _Muffliato_ so he doesn't have to suffer knowing whether Potter follows him and a _Colloportus_ at the door for good measure.

Draco lies there a long time, but sleep refuses to claim him. And as the sun peeks through the windows, he can’t help but wonder if he is leaving more than just the darkness behind him.

**~*~*~*~*~**

When Draco gets the nerve to come out the next morning, it is with a strange sense of defiance and remorse shadowing his movements. He knows he was childish the night before, but he’d been unable to slow the onslaught of emotions brewing inside of him at the sight of Potter stepping away from him.

Draco is at least mature enough to recognise he was in the wrong, at least this time, even if he has no intentions of admitting it out loud. He fully expects Potter to be locked in the spare room upstairs again, or to be walking around the house ignoring him. He’s not sure which prospect he finds more displeasing.

So it's with great surprise that when Draco walks into the kitchen intent on quietly rummaging up a cup of tea and some food, he finds Potter already sitting at the table, a plate full of muffins in the center and a pot of steaming tea. Potter is drinking out of that hideous Chudley Cannons mug he seems so fond of again. There’s an empty Gryffindor mug set down at the seat in front of him and Draco almost thinks he’d prefer the Cannons one, but he knows better than to say that out loud.

“Muffin?” Potter asks amiably, and Draco’s eyebrows knit together in confusion, having expected a much more volatile reception than a smile and a baked good.

“Are these the ones from the floor? Are you trying to poison me? Because I’ll have you know you won’t get away with it.”

Potter reaches out and picks up one of the muffins and for a short moment Draco thinks he might chuck it at his face, but Potter just smiles, holding it out to Draco. “No, you berk. After you left I _really_ couldn’t sleep so I made more.”

Draco feels a bit of guilt as he takes the muffin, sniffing it before taking a bite. It tastes like lemon and fresh raspberries and Draco suddenly wants to throw the muffin right at Potter’s attractive face because _of fucking course_ it's delicious. And his favourite flavour.

“It’s passable,” Draco mumbles, taking three more bites before he pours himself some tea. He can’t help but notice that some of Potter’s tension seems to leave when Draco reaches for a second muffin.

“Just passable?” Harry’s raised eyebrow disappears beneath his ridiculous hair.

Draco tightens his hold on his mug of tea. “Fine, it’s an above-average muffin. Don’t let it go to your head. Merlin knows your ego doesn’t need more stroking.”

They eat in silence after that, something hanging in the air. Draco knows they need to broach it but he can’t make himself say the words first. He has just begun pouring his second cup of tea when Potter begins to speak again.

“About last night... I think we need to talk.” Potter twists his fingers atop the table, looking nervous.

Draco’s chest constricts tightly. “I do believe that’s what we’re doing right in this moment.”

Potter sighs and Draco can visibly see him restraining his anger. “Could you not make this any harder?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me too.”

“What exactly are you sorry for?” Draco questions.

“For whatever I did that upset you. I think we need to talk about more than just last night.”

Draco lets out a shuddering breath. “Alright.”

Potter’s smile is gone, replaced with something that looks remarkably like sadness. “Why did you refuse all my owls? After the ball. You didn’t read a single one of them. I mean, I assumed you changed your mind, that you didn’t want anything to happen between us after all. But then you took this assignment and you show up here and you’re a right pain in my arse, but fuck, Draco, it’s still there. I know you know it. So if you want me so much, why won’t you let me in?”

Draco opens his mouth and snaps it shut again. Whatever he was expecting to hear, this certainly wasn’t it. He feels almost as if he’s been hit by a _Confundus_ charm.

“You want to know why _I_ don’t want _you_?” he manages to choke out, his voice taking on an unnaturally high pitch.

Potter crosses his arms over his chest almost defensively. “If you don’t want to talk about this, just say so. You don’t have to get snippy.”

“Potter,” Draco says slowly. “Tell me what happened the night of the Commemoration Ball.”

“What do you mean? Were you that drunk you don’t remember?”

“Just indulge me, _please_.”

Potter looks unsure as he purses his lips, the fingers of his right hand wrapping around his other arm. “Okay, fine. You came up to me at the bar right after my speech. You told me I was a wonderful public speaker, which by the way was my first tip-off you were smashed.”

“I wasn’t that pissed. _Yet_.”

“Right. Well as you’ll remember... or maybe you don’t, who knows, we spent the rest of the evening flirting and drinking. Although, you had quite a bit more to drink than me. You dragged me out to the balcony and started kissing me, touching me, pressing into me.” Potter’s voice drops. “By the time you invited me back to your place, I knew you needed to get out of there before something happened.”

“You mean before I embarrassed you by mauling you.” Draco is tempted to grab another muffin just so he will have something to do besides stare at Potter.

Potter’s head shoots up, his eyes alight. “No, Malfoy. That is not what I meant. I meant before _something else_ happened. Before I let it happen without knowing for sure it was what _you_ wanted.”

Draco feels all the air leave his lungs. “ _What_?”

“Malfoy, you were fucking bevved. You didn't know what you were saying or doing. Did you honestly think I wanted our first time to be while you were so smashed you couldn’t actually consent?”

There are so many things in that confession, Draco doesn’t even know where to start. _First time_. What _he_ wanted. _Consent_. Draco’s head is swimming. “Let me get this straight. You wanted to sleep with me but took me home, kissed me and then _left_. Out of what, some misguided sense of nobility? I wasn’t some blushing virgin.”

Potter lets out a slow breath, his legs stretching out beneath the table and bumping Draco’s. Potter doesn’t move when they collide, though, just presses their calves together more firmly. “Malfoy, you can’t give consent when you’re that pissed. I didn’t want to wake up and find out it was something you regretted; that _I_ was something you regretted.”

“You didn’t sleep with me because that’s how badly you wanted to sleep with me?”

Potter looks almost self-conscious as he begins to swipe at the leftover crumbs on the table, not meeting Draco’s eyes. “Pretty much.”

Potter’s logic makes Draco want to pull his hair out. “Did I do something that made you think it wasn’t what I wanted?”

Potter looks like he’s choosing his words carefully. “No, not exactly. But you weren’t exactly clear about what you _did_ want. When I sleep with someone I like to know it was a conscious decision; that it means something. I’ve been down that road before, of being in a relationship, of doing things because it's what one of you thinks is supposed to happen. It doesn’t feel nice. And I didn’t know what it meant to you. I wasn’t— fuck.” Potter stops, pushing his chair away from the table and standing up. He begins pacing the kitchen as he runs his hands through his hair. “I didn’t need you to spout poetry at me or tell me that we were gonna be together forever, but I needed to know you wanted it. That you wanted me. And even more than that, to know _what_ you wanted. I want more than a drunk tumble in the sheets.”

Draco’s face heats and he has to look down at his hands, can’t keep his gaze locked on Potter’s blazing eyes. It's been a long time since he’d given more than a passing thought to what he _wanted_.

“You must know I want you.”

Potter finally stops pacing. “No. I _think_ you want me. But I don’t know, and I don’t know _how_ you want me. Malfoy, you’re impossible to read!”

“I kissed you. Fuck, Potter, my cock was hard. I know you felt it. That should tell you all you want to know.”

Potter takes a deep breath as if bracing himself to speak. “No! It doesn’t! There’s more to it than arousal. You could get turned on by me and still not want it. And it’s just... _fuck_ , it’s so much more than that. I want—” Potter pauses, sitting down heavily again as if he can no longer stand, “I _need_ more than that.”

The seconds tick by and neither of them speak. Draco isn’t sure if he can. He doesn’t know how to tell Potter that he'd spent over half of his life purposely _not_ thinking about what he wanted or needed. His mind flashes immediately to the sex talk he’d been given by his father on the day he turned fourteen, reminding him that as a pure-blood he was _never_ to air his dirty laundry in public, especially about what he got up to in the bedroom, but mostly that homosexuality was something he was free to practise so long as it was _never_ discussed or interfered with his duty to produce an heir.

It had been drilled into Draco at an early age that duty always came before desire.

It wasn’t as if Draco was inexperienced. He’d slept with so many men he’d lost count, some of whose names he couldn't even recall in the light of day. But that was because Draco never slept with the same person twice. He was used to men assuming what he liked and taking what they liked from him in return. That's what sex had always been: getting off. And yet, here is Potter, wanting him, _needing_ him to know what he wants. But even more than that—to say it all out loud.

“I thought you didn't want me.” Draco stares at his hands as he makes the confession.

“Is that why you wouldn’t talk to me after?”

Draco’s throat feels tight. “Yes.”

“I didn’t. I wouldn’t. Malfoy, look at me. _Please_.” Potter’s voice is so earnest.

Draco doesn’t want to look but he does anyway, his heart rate increasing at the sight of Potter leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table and his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he stares at him.

“When you didn’t respond, I thought you’d changed your mind about me. I was never sure what you wanted and then suddenly that night a lot of old memories are dragged up, you’re getting drunk, and asking me back to yours. I couldn’t sleep with you, not like that. The next morning I owled you asking to meet me for lunch, but my owl came back with the parchment still tied. I thought maybe it was a mistake... but you returned ten letters unopened!”

“That’s... not what I expected to hear,” Draco breathes out, the guilt in the pit of his stomach returning. “I was embarrassed. Hurt. I didn’t know you felt that way too.”

“Because you wouldn’t talk to me.” Potter’s voice is surprisingly devoid of anger. “Look, it’s not like I’m wonderful with words, alright. It’s not easy for me to say these things sometimes. My mouth works before my brain and I won’t always say the right things and we’ll probably still fight. A lot. But don’t you see... if you — if _we —_ don’t tell each other what we want, we’re not going to get it.”

“I’m telling you now I like you. I don’t know why the rest needs to be said out loud.”

“Because I want to know that you being with me is something you _choose_. Not something that’s just happening to us. I don’t just want to take what I can get. I deserve more than that, and so do you.”

“I don’t understand why you need me to _say_ it. Isn’t it enough to just, _fuck—_ clearly I like you. I think that’s rather obvious.”

Potter cocks his head to the side as if studying him for a moment before he speaks. “Can I kiss you?”

“You don’t have to have to ask,” Draco breathes, pushing his chair back and rising to stand as Potter moves in front of him, his hand reaching to wrap around the back of Draco’s neck.

“Yes I do,” he says quietly, pressing their lips together.

Draco tries to hold back his whimper, but it’s too much—the knowledge that Potter wanted him, _still_ wants him—and it comes out sounding loud and desperate. Draco would be embarrassed, but Potter makes his own choking sound in response, pressing his body against Draco’s and deepening the kiss. What started off as unsure quickly morphs into something needy and desperate as they each scramble to stroke and touch and kiss now that they’ve been given permission.

Potter pulls back unexpectedly, his face flushed and his eyes bright. “Will you come upstairs with me?”

Draco suddenly feels breathless. “You still want—”

“Fuck, yes. If it's what you want?” Potter looks hopeful.

Draco closes his eyes, trying to slow his breathing. When he opens them again Potter is still staring at him, his thumb stroking down the muscle in the side of Draco’s neck. It takes longer than Draco would care to admit to get his mouth to open, to say _yes_ , but it's worth the effort for the way Potter responds making a wild sort of noise and crashing their lips together again. Potter’s hands are everywhere, stroking down his back and over his arse, gripping his forearms and pulling him close as they stumble down the hallway.

When they cross through the doorway Potter’s hands still at Draco’s waistband, his eyes blinking slowly as he glances up through a few stray wisps of hair that have fallen into his face. “You can. I _want_ you too,” Draco murmurs, his own hands reaching towards Harry’s zipper.

“Please,” Harry supplies, and it’s enough for Draco, who is tugging them down, groaning when Potter grabs the bottom of his jumper and tugs it over his head in one swift go, knocking his glasses off in the process. He stands there, completely naked, not looking shy in the least as he helps Draco disrobe.

Draco has been naked in front of plenty of men, and he has never once been shy about what he looks like. He knows he is attractive in the same way he knows he is smart and that he is rich; as indisputable facts instilled in him from birth.

And yet, as Potter’s eyes trail over his body, Draco doesn’t think he’s ever felt as wanted as he does beneath Potter’s gaze.

There is a hesitancy to Potter’s movements, and now that Draco knows it for what it is he feels emboldened, taking Potter’s hand and bringing it towards his cock. “You can do a lot more than look, Potter.”

Potter’s mouth quirks up at the side before he laughs, a deep and rich sound that makes Draco’s stomach quiver. And then Potter is pulling his hand off Draco’s cock and pressing it into the center of his chest, shoving Draco back onto the bed. “Oh trust me, I plan to.”

Draco is just glad Potter doesn’t seem to need him to say anything else after that because his coherence drops a few notches when Potter climbs above him, his erect cock skimming across Draco’s thigh before stopping to rest at the juncture of his hip. Potter is leaning above him on braced arms, his chest heaving and his skin already flushed with a light sheen of sweat.

“Do you like this?” Potter asks, thrusting his hips down and rubbing their cocks together. Draco moans, his hands flying up to grasp onto Potter’s hips, delighting in the way the warm, hard flesh feels beneath his fingers.

“Fuck, Potter.”

“Merlin, yes. Fuck, I knew you’d feel amazing.”

“Should’ve known you’d talk too much,” Draco teases, lifting his hips to improve the friction, delighting in the way Potter’s arms quiver as he does it.

They set up a rhythm quickly, rubbing and thrusting and touching with abandon, that has Draco nearly delirious with his need to come. As much as he wants release, though, Draco still isn't prepared for it to end, but all too soon he feels a tension coiling in his stomach until he’s coming with Potter’s name on his lips.

Potter makes a sound that alleviates any of Draco’s worry, and Draco tries to catch his own breath as Potter trembles above him, dropping his face down onto Draco’s shoulder and panting into his neck. Draco reaches out to run his hands down Potter’s back, feeling him shiver in response. It only takes a few more erratic movements before Potter is moaning loudly, collapsing on top of Draco with an undignified groan. Draco has never been one for cuddling but he cannot deny that Potter’s weight atop him feels solid, _real_ , and not at all as suffocating as Draco would have expected.

“Fuck,” Potter pants against Draco’s neck, placing a few open-mouthed kisses to his skin. “That was—”

“Yes it was.”

Draco takes a few steadying breaths, working up his nerve to speak, but Potter beats him to it. “You can stay, if you want. I’d like you to.” The words are mumbled against his skin and Potter isn’t giving any signs that he has any intention of moving.

“I’d like that,” Draco answers honestly, surprised at the rush of emotion it evokes in him. He has never wanted so much just to lay with anyone, not like _this_. He can feel Potter’s lips curl up against his shoulder.

Draco tries to hold back his disappointment when Potter rolls off of him a few minutes later, watching with rapt attention as Potter reaches for his discarded wand and casts a cleaning charm over both of them.

Draco lies very still, not sure how it's supposed to work now that the post-coital bliss has been interrupted. Potter, however, does not seem to share the same hesitancy because almost immediately he is crawling back towards the centre of the bed, towards Draco, throwing an arm and leg over him and tugging the duvet over them both.

It’s on the tip of Draco’s tongue to point out that it’s only mid-morning and really not at all a proper time for sleeping. He wants to ask the million questions swirling in his head to which he desperately wants answers. Instead, though, he breathes out a sigh, breathes out his worries, and closes his eyes. Potter mimics him, his body getting heavier as he, too, relaxes.

Draco doesn’t know how to do this _thing_ Potter seems to want, but he thinks perhaps he’d like to try.

**~*~*~*~*~**

When Draco awakens the next morning to find Potter’s warm body still wrapped around his own, Potter’s soft breathing against his cheek, he feels equally elated and terrified; apprehensive at the idea that something will change for the worse now that they’ve got off together. Yet as the day progresses he’s grateful to find that Potter continues to treat him exactly the same. There is more touching, glances that no longer have to be hidden, but he still treats Draco the same as before. Draco still has to put up with Potter’s moodiness, like when he chucks a scone across the table at Draco for innocently suggesting they cooked at least four minutes too long, but he also retains his dry sense of humour and surprisingly easy conversation.

The truth is Draco doesn't have much experience with relationships, and he isn’t used to spending so much time with someone _after_ sex. His few short relationships each ended when he’d realised that the other person seemed to think sex would lead to love, and by osmosis somehow calm Draco down, dampen his personality. Draco knows he has a lot to offer, but he’s also aware of his shortcomings and recognises that he is not the easiest person to love. But he has absolutely no desire to make his edges softer for someone else.

Potter doesn’t appear to mind his edges; he seems to revel in them.

Because Potter, well, Potter seems to enjoy his company even when Draco is telling him off for not brushing his hair in the last decade or questioning his cooking skills. In fact, Potter seems to get off on Draco snarking at him almost as much as he does when Draco is being nice to him. This works rather well because Draco is quite sure he is never going to spout sonnets or write Potter a love letter, even if he does have a profound desire to wrap himself around the other man and never let go.

They spend the night sitting on the couch, drinking wine (or a Guinness, in Potter’s case) while listening to the Puddlemere United vs. Chudley Cannons match on the wireless and bickering over which team should win. Potter casually leans against him, his voice impossibly intimate as he rests his head on Draco’s shoulder and gives a secondary play-by-play of the match in his ear.

When they rise to stand, ready to retire for the night, Draco is certain that Potter is just going to kiss him and take him back to his bedroom. What he’s not expecting is for Potter to suck on his bottom lip before asking, “What do you want?”

There is an easy smile on his face that doesn’t match the tension currently coiling its way up Draco’s back. He’d thought this asking nonsense was done with, now that they both knew their attraction was mutual.

“I thought I already told you what I want.You’re supposed to just kiss me! Or me kiss you! That how _this_ works,” he says, voice a bit tight as he gestures between them both, his arms flailing a bit.

Potter takes one step forward but doesn’t reach out. “Why don’t you want to talk about what you want?” he asks gently.

“It’s unnecessary and not exactly going to get me in the mood.”

Draco expects Potter to protest, so he’s more than a bit surprised when Potter smirks instead. “Oh, Malfoy, you have _no_ idea.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Draco grumbles, huffing in indignance because he should _not_ be getting aroused by Potter insinuating he’s wrong.

“I mean,” Potter says quietly, reaching out to stroke one finger across the inside of Draco’s wrist. “That it can be incredibly sexy to hear what someone wants to do to you, or wants you to do to them.”

Draco’s heart begins to beat rapidly, his face flushing, but he still juts his chin out defiantly. “I highly doubt that.”

“Can I go down on my knees for you?” Potter asks abruptly, a hopeful look on his face as Potter slowly drags his tongue along his upper lip.

Draco’s breath catches in his throat and no words will come out, so he simply nods. Potter grins, making a show of very slowly dropping to his knees, pressing his cheek against the front of Draco’s trousers. “Do you want my mouth on your cock? Want me to take you down as deep as I can?”

“Fuck, yes,” he breathes out.

Potter has the audacity to smirk as he opens Draco’s robes and then unhooks the row of buttons on Draco’s trousers, tugging them down to his ankles before nuzzling his face into the patch of soft curls just above Draco’s cock. He looks reverent, and Draco has never seen anyone look so turned on at the idea of pleasing _him_.

Potter takes what feels like ages to begin, nipping and licking along his hips so slowly that Draco is close to begging for a little friction against his aching cock, and Draco _never_ begs.

“Fucking do _something_ , Potter,” he whines.

Potter’s pleased half smile returns. “Do you want to press your cock between my lips? Want me to open my mouth and take you inside? Do you to watch your cock disappear down my throat as you twine your fingers in my hair and fuck my face?”

He moves Draco’s hands to the back of his head and Draco has to bite his lip to stop from screaming. This is not supposed to be sexy, and Potter is not supposed to be able to say things like this; things that make Draco not only want to give himself, but to take Potter as well, to give him the same kind of pleasure in return.

“Yes,” Draco groans, tangling his fingers tightly in Potter’s hair and letting out a moan of appreciation when he feels Potter’s mouth descend upon his cock. It's just one confident lick along the underside before it's swallowed down, and then Potter is bobbing his head back and forth, letting Draco set the tempo as Draco begins to thrust his hips slowly while holding Potter’s head in place.

It's not as if Draco hasn't had more than his fair share of blowjobs before, but something about seeing Potter on his knees, wide eyes and flushed cheeks hollowed around the length of his aching cock, makes him _want_.

Even more arousing is the fact that Potter seems to _want_ to please Draco, his hands running up and down the insides of his thighs before moving to cup his balls. And Potter isn't being silent either—he’s making sounds that should be illegal for the person on the giving end. Potter sounds as though he _enjoys_ giving pleasure to someone else.

Seeing Potter kneeling before him brings all the fantasies Draco always pushes aside to the front of his mind, the ones he only allows himself to think about when he is alone in the dead of night; of Potter beneath him, of spreading him open and sinking into Potter’s body as if he belongs there.

Draco wants desperately to claim Potter, to have Potter give himself to Draco, to make him writhe beneath him in a way no man ever has. Draco has never topped. The men he’s been with have always assumed he only bottomed and Draco had never had the courage or confidence to correct them. Draco enjoys it, of course — he likes to be fucked just fine — but it's never been enough; never felt like what he needed in those rare moments he left himself think about it at all.

But Draco is almost sure that even if he could voice these things out loud, they couldn't possibly be the same things Potter wants, so he stays silent, holding back his words as he comes with a strangled moan.

Potter continues to suck until there is nothing left, licking and nipping and pressing soft kisses underneath his belly button until Draco tugs him up and kisses him roughly. Potter’s lips are swollen and his hair is a mess; he looks close to wrecked as he pants into Draco’s mouth, clutching at his shoulders and murmuring, “I want you.”

“I want you too,” Draco echoes, surprised at just easily those words come.

“You have me.” Potter’s voice is deep, _affected_. “Fuck, I want you to touch me.”

“I think I can manage that,” Draco almost laughs, having expected a much more demanding request.

Potter swallows, resting his forehead against Draco’s, the bottom of his glasses digging into Draco’s cheek, but he can’t care, not with Potter’s mouth so close to his own and Potter’s eyes boring into his. “Want you to pull me off. Thought I’d go crazy watching you this week, those long fingers flexing when you write, when you eat, Merlin, even when you talk. Haven’t been able to stop thinking about what it would feel like if they were touching me. Do you want to touch me, Malfoy?”

“Fucking hell, the mouth on you, Potter.”

“We already know what my mouth can do. How about you show me what your hands can do.” His tone is light, playful, but he looks unsure as if Draco might refuse him. It makes something in Draco snap like a dam breaking, a rush of emotions and desire flooding his system as he nearly knocks them both over.

“Oh, fuck,” Potter groans, squeezing his eyes shut and dropping his head back. It exposes the long arch of his neck, his adam’s apple bobbing as he pants, and Draco bends his head to lick along all that exposed, tan skin. Draco doesn't let up his assault as he unzips Potter’s trousers, not bothering to pull them down, too eager to touch Potter. The second his fingers wrap around Potter’s cock, the other man hisses, and Draco takes a moment to appreciate the warm weightiness against his palm, squeezing firmly as he begins to stroke.

“Merlin that’s — oh, fuck.”

“Do you like it?” Draco whispers, pulling Potter’s earlobe into his mouth and nibbling as he runs his thumb across the slit of Potter’s cock.

“You bloody well know I like it,” Potter laughs. Draco likes the sound of his laugh, likes knowing he is the one making Potter emit those soft breathy noises of pleasure.

“Mhmm, well you are rather noisy.”

“You, ah — _fuck_ , do that again — ahhh.” Potter leans forward, dropping his forehead onto Draco’s shoulders. “Mm close.”

Draco isn’t sure what possesses him as he presses a kiss to the top of Potter’s head, closing his eyes and inhaling the earthy scent of Potter’s shampoo. Draco knows he’s good at this, knows he’s always been able to bring a man to his knees with firm strokes and teasing touches, and he spares no effort, agile strokes with one hand as his other hand rests on Potter’s lower back. But then he stops, hesitating, and Potter pulls back and looks at him with unsure eyes.

“What—”

Draco opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead of speaking, he begins to run his free hand back and forth underneath the waistband of Potter’s pants. Draco can see the way Potter holds himself tight, waiting, and it emboldens him. He darts his hand underneath, dragging his index finger down the crack of Harry’s arse before pulling it back; this time it’s he who waits.

Potter all but shudders, his mouth falling open as he whimpers. “Fuck, yes. I want you to touch me. Merlin, do it again.”

Draco seals a chaste kiss before resuming his stroking, never letting his eyes leave Potter’s face as he slides his other hand down to cup Potter’s arse, his finger dragging up and down, just teasing the warmth between his arse cheeks. It doesn’t take long before Potter looks close to the edge, his chest heaving and his hips moving as if he isn't quite sure whether he wants to thrust forward or backward.

Without warning, Potter’s hands fly up to grip at Draco’s bare hips painfully hard, his mouth open as he sucks in short heavy breaths against Draco’s collarbone. “I need to come, fuck, _please_.”

Draco has never wanted anyone the way he wants Potter in that moment, his own sensitive cock twitching at the sight of Potter whimpering his name as he comes in gushing spurts across Draco’s hand, nearly collapsing against him.

They stand like that for so long Draco fleetingly entertains the thought that perhaps Potter has fallen asleep standing up. He pokes him a little harder than necessary in the side just to be sure.

“Oi!”

“Just making sure you’re still alive.”

“You might be overestimating your prowess, you wanker. You haven’t killed me yet.”

 _Yet_. Draco sucks in a deep breath. “Does that mean we’re going to do this again?”

Potter snorts, pulling his head back to grin at Draco. Potter’s hair is sticking up in the front even worse than usual. His glasses are crooked, smudged at the corners and there’s still a bit of Draco’s come on the side of his cheek. He looks utterly debauched and Draco wants to drag him to bed and do it all over again. “Of course we bloody well are. If you want to.”

“Well, I couldn't possibly walk away from a challenge.”

“Course not,” Potter murmurs, knocking his fingers against Draco in a silent invitation.

Draco tries to calm himself down, to slow the beating of his heart and his racing thoughts. This time it's Draco who smiles.

**~*~*~*~*~**

If Draco thinks, even for a second that Potter will no longer feel the need to talk about sex so much now that they both know this thing between them is exceedingly mutual, he is sorely mistaken.

Hearing Harry say those things out loud had shaken Draco to the core, physically and emotionally. He’d spent a lifetime assuming those words were not only improper but also _unnecessary_. And his sexual experiences had shown him as much was true. And yet with every word Potter had uttered, about his own wants and Draco’s, Draco had found himself questioning everything he’d ever known.

Potter, as it turns out, is rather tenacious. Over the next few days he seems to take Draco’s proclamation that _talking about it isn’t sexy_ as some sort of challenge, as if he is determined to prove Draco wrong. It rankles Draco the first few times, if only because it seems to come so naturally for Potter. He can say these _filthy_ , dirty things to Draco, ripping the desires from Draco’s mind as easily as if they were written across his own face despite his every attempt to conceal them, or laying his own wants out as if asking for Draco’s mouth on his cock is as easy as asking him to pass the Prophet.

_Can I wrap my hands around your cock and stroke you until you’re screaming my name?_

_Fuck, Malfoy, want your mouth on me. I want you to wrap your lips around my cock, want to see your cheeks hollowed as you taste me._

_Can I rim you? I want my mouth on you, in you; let me fuck you with my mouth, please._

_Want to feel you against me. Want you to shove me against the wall and thrust against me. Fuck._

Despite all of the imaginative ways they have had sex, Draco is still surprised that Potter hasn’t pushed to properly fuck him, cock in arse - because that what every other man has always done with him. There has been no actual fucking, yet. Draco isn’t entirely sure if Potter is waiting for him to initiate it, or if there is something else stopping him from asking for it. Though Draco, as badly as he wants more, is perfectly happy getting off with hands and mouths and a strong, hard body against his own that the idea of asking for more slips away at the sheer pleasure he feels whenever Potter is touching him, or he Potter.

Draco can no longer deny that he wants it, wants Potter, in ways he has never wanted anyone or anything, and it unnerves him; he feels out of control and off balance, but somehow also happier than he’s been in a long time. Draco doesn’t think it is entirely fair that Potter can make him feel so many things at once.

Sure, Draco wanted Potter before he’d got this assignment. Hell, he’d wanted him long before the Ministry Ball, if he’s being honest with himself, but he’s always tried to believe that it was merely an itch he needed to scratch. Draco relished in their occasional flirtatious meetings, however fleeting or brief they were, had enjoyed watching the line of Potter’s body as he walked down Diagon Alley or the way his laughter would carry across the Atrium at the Ministry when he visited Granger.

But before this assignment, even in his weakest moments, allowed himself to think it’s about more than just sex. Because Draco has learned to stop wanting things he knows he can never have. It is easier and less painful to be pragmatic about the things he can attain in life. He has made amends for his past, found a career that not only is he good at but also makes him feel fulfilled; love is not something he entertained. He knows an heir is expected, and if he cannot love his wife, at least he will have family honour. But the more he has of Potter, the more he can admit, even if it is only to himself, that he is quite certain he isn’t going to ever want to let Potter go, that it has never been about just sex.

Draco likes the way Potter’s eyes crinkle up at the corners behind his glasses when he smiles, and the way he laughs at the jokes Draco makes that no one else seems to find nearly as funny. He likes the way Potter smells, like sunshine and fresh air — something inherently deep and earthy that makes Draco feel grounded. He likes the little whimpers Potter makes when Draco kisses him behind the ear, and the way Potter’s stomach muscles contract as he ruts above him, whispering things that make Draco come faster than he has since he was eighteen. He likes that things won’t ever be easy with Potter because he never lets Draco get away with anything, and Draco is starting to think that maybe he is a bit tired of living life the safe way, the easy way. Potter makes him feel alive in ways he thought he’d never feel.

As the days go on, Draco can feel something inside of him unfurling, cracks healing. Yet still, something inside him resists, afraid that his inability to offer Potter the same kind of honesty will be too much strain; that it will be the thing that ultimately divides them.

**~*~*~*~*~**

It’s a dreary Saturday afternoon when Draco finds himself holed up again, seated at Potter’s kitchen table, a stack of reports in front of him and a steaming cup of perfectly brewed Earl Grey in his left hand. The plate beside him has only a few crumbs and Draco would be embarrassed by the amount of violet and lemon biscuits he’s eaten except for the fact that they might be the best thing he’s ever tasted, so it's really not his fault Potter left the entire plate on the table and didn’t tell Draco to save him any.

Draco can’t quite explain why he always ends up in Potter’s kitchen — at least when he’s not with Potter, that is. He’s not sure he’d ever even stepped foot in the kitchens at Malfoy Manor; that had been a place reserved for his mother or the house-elves. Meals were always formal affairs growing up, taking place in the dining room, requiring proper dress and impeccable manners, regardless of the day or time. But Potter’s kitchen, with its mismatched dining chairs and sturdy table near an always-crackling fire, feels welcoming and homey in a way Draco has never known he craved.

Potter is once again holed up in the second bedroom upstairs, and despite the things he and Potter have done and the things they’ve said, Potter has still made no mention of what is inside the room or why he spends several hours in there every day. Draco has resolved himself _not_ to ask about it, despite his burning curiosity. He can’t explain why he wants Potter to tell him, to share that bit of himself, without prompting.

Draco is startled out of his thoughts by a loud tapping at the window. He can tell immediately that it’s a Ministry owl, the rolled parchment clutched firmly in its talons bearing a familiar red ribbon and gold wax seal. His mind flashes back to the conversation he’d had with Potter the day before when he’d quietly told him that Granger had told him they were close to closing the case.

And so Draco’s stomach sinks because even though he’s been expecting this to come any time now, at least since Potter’s confession, he isn’t ready for it. With a heaviness in his stomach, he opens the window and the owl swoops in, landing in the middle of the table directly on top of Draco’s papers and holding out its leg.

“Good boy,” Draco murmurs, stroking its back as he unties the parchment. The owl hoots twice before ruffling its feathers and taking off through the open window. The wind howls in, disrupting the warm peace in the kitchen, but Draco doesn’t shut it, welcoming the stark contrast and jolt back to reality as he unrolls the parchment.

_Office of the Ministry of Magic_  
_Auror Department, Level Two_  
_Head Auror Gawain Robards_

_Auror D. Malfoy,_

_Threat Level to Mr. H.J. Potter has been reduced to a level one. All perpetrators have been apprehended. Your assignment is hereby terminated._

_Thank you for your service. I expect you back at the office at eight o’clock sharp Monday morning._

_G. Robards_  
_Head Auror_

Draco tosses the letter onto the table, a strange sense of uneasiness swirling inside of him. He knew it wouldn’t last forever, of course, that once the suspects were caught he’d have no excuse to stay with Potter. And yet, he cannot stop the overwhelming sense of disappointment he feels at the idea of leaving, nor can he push away the sense of apprehension that something will change between them once they’re forced to figure this relationship out in the real world.

Because now Draco is under no more delusions, he knows that while he may not love Potter yet, someday he could, and he is well on his way to fitting Potter into all the places in which he hadn’t thought could fit anyone else. But his uncertainty at what it will feel like outside of the relative safety and shelter of Potter’s home weighs heavily on his mind as he forces himself upstairs, standing on the landing for a long time before he gets the nerve to knock on the door.

Potter yanks the door open quickly, a worried frown on his face. “Is everything okay?”

Draco nods, unable to force a smile on his face. “Robards just owled me. You’re a free man. No more babysitter needed.”

“Oh.” Potter looks disappointed, a strange tension in his stance.

Draco’s chest aches, wanting things to go back to the way they were this morning immediately. “Yeah, so I’ll be on my way then.”

“Wait, you’re leaving — _now_? They need you back already?”

“No, I just wasn’t sure—” But Draco’s words are cut off as Potter grabs the front of his robes and pulls him through the open doorway and into a kiss.

“I’d like you to stay.” It sounds like a statement, but Draco knows it’s a question; knows that Potter is waiting to see what Draco wants. He looks unsure standing there in jeans and a plain white t-shirt, his bare feet poking out and his toes wiggling upon the worn rug. Potter seems younger than he is in that moment, and more hesitant than Draco recalls ever seeing him look. He wonders if perhaps he’s misjudged Potter’s confidence, if perhaps him saying what he wants has not been as easy for him as Draco had assumed.

Draco knows he can make up an excuse, find an easy way out of this, but something about the hopeful way Potter is looking at him makes any of those options seem utterly reprehensible, and besides that — he doesn’t _want_ to leave.

“I’d like that.”

The blinding smile Potter shoots him makes Draco’s stomach flip. He has the sudden urge to pull Potter into a hug, for no other reason than because he can, and so he does, delighting in the small sound of surprise the other man makes before strong arms are wrapping around his waist and holding on tightly.

They stay in that embrace for quite awhile until Draco suddenly blurts out, “Is this your office?”

Potter pulls back, ducking his head and rubbing at his cheek self-consciously. “Um, yes.”

Draco pushes aside his chagrin at having not realized what Potter must be doing in here to allow himself to fully take in the space. The entire room is filled with photos of Potter and Teddy, and some with Granger and Weasley. There are photos of people Draco doesn’t know, but must be his parents because they look so much like Potter. The walls are filled with bookshelves, piled high with brightly coloured books with bent spines, and in the corner is a bookshelf filled with nothing but children’s toys. The entire room looks lived in. It is warm and inviting and so utterly Potter that Draco understands why he might have been nervous to share it; it’s as if he is sharing a piece of himself.

There’s a large desk near a window that overlooks the garden, and the wall to the right is covered in children’s drawings, most of which seem to have been done in crayon. There is even one in a frame of a small boy with pink hair holding hands with a misshapen blob that he’s pretty sure is supposed to be Potter.

“Teddy did those,” he says quietly, eventually shoving his hands in his pockets as if he doesn't know what to do with them.

“I guessed that.”

Draco knows Potter is close to Teddy. Andromeda mentions it occasionally when he visits them for supper on Sundays, and Teddy talks about him a lot in the exuberant way children talk about anything they like. This is something he knows objectively without ever really thinking about it. He knows Potter is important to Teddy, but he realises suddenly how important Teddy must be to Potter as well.

“Are the toys his as well?”

At his words, Potter coughs, looking almost embarrassed. “They’re, uh... they’re mine actually. I didn’t have—” Potter stops, blowing out a deep breath before looking right at Draco. “I didn't have any as a kid. I don’t play with them — well unless Teddy comes to visit of course — but I just... like knowing I can have them now, if I want too.” He shrugs as if it’s nothing, as if he isn't revealing bits and pieces of his heart that make Draco want to keep him forever.

Draco tries to imagine a childhood with no toys, and several rumours he’s heard about Potter’s childhood click into place like the edges of a puzzle, and the entire picture is suddenly clearer. It makes something inside of him ache.

“I think I’d like to go to bed,” Draco says precipitously.

Potter looks disappointed but he covers it up with a smile. “Oh, of course. I mean that’s fine. You can—”

But Draco laughs, reaching out to take Potter’s hand. “I meant _with_ you.”

Something flashes across Potter’s face and Draco doesn’t know what it means, but he wants to; he wants to know _everything_ about Potter.

He isn’t even sure how they manage to make it to Potter’s bedroom — they can’t seem to stop kissing or touching for more than a second — but make it they do, somehow even managing to get undressed before they tumble onto the bed in a tangle of arms and legs.

“What do you want?” Potter asks from beneath him, his eyes impossibly bright without his glasses.

Draco runs his hands up and down Potter’s stomach, watching the rise and fall of his chest as Potter watches him. His throat feels tight, his apprehension at saying what he wants out loud outweighed only by his desire to have all the things with Potter he’d never dared hope he might have - honesty, emotional intimacy, and most of all commitment. “I want to fuck you,” he chokes out.

He needn’t have worried about being rejected, though, because that indiscernible look is back on Potter’s face, before Potter closes his eyes and whimpers, “Fuck, yes.”

Draco has spent so long fighting against what he wants, what he needs, against everything he and Potter have always been, that he’d been certain things weren’t the way they were supposed to be. But in this moment Draco has never felt more certain of anything.

“I’ve never done it like this,” Draco confesses.

Potter licks his lips, his hands gripping Draco’s thighs tightly. “Me either.”

“Fuck, Potter,” Draco groans. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

Potter shakes his head. “Tell me. _Please_.”

Draco’s usual gut reaction would be to stay quiet, to refuse, but he pushes those thoughts aside and forces himself to be brave.

“You just fill a room, Potter. Everything you are is embedded in every single thing you touch. Do you have any idea how intoxicating that is? Fuck, I want to own you. Do you have any idea the ways I want to make you mine?”

“Fuck,” Potter whispers, arching up against him. Draco links their fingers, pushing Potter’s hands down onto the bed above his head.

“I want you to. Want you to own me, to make me yours. Fuck, do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted your fingers and your cock inside of me. I thought I might lose my mind having you so close and not begging you to take me.”

That shatters whatever modicum of self-control Draco is holding onto, and he releases Potter’s hands to grab his discarded wand, casting a protection and lubrication spell before rubbing his slippery fingers together to warm the lube as he softly ruts against Potter. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

Draco knows exactly how to make it good for Potter, remembers all the things that would’ve helped make his first time better and all the ways preparation can be just as glorious as the actual fucking. But he wants to hear Potter say it, to hear the filthy things he wants said out loud as Draco pushes into him for the first time.

“Fuck,” Potter pants. “Can’t think when you’re doing that.”

Draco chuckles, moving back down the bed and nudging Potter’s legs apart. Potter raises himself onto his elbows, his lips parted as he watches Draco run slicked fingers over his crack.

“I want you like this,” Potter says. “I want to watch you.”

“It’s not as comfortable as being on your hands and knees, not for the first time.”

Potter huffs. “Don’t care, I want to see you.” There’s a stubborn tilt to his jaw and Draco knows no matter what he says, Potter won’t change his mind.

“Are you ready?”

Potter nods. Draco kneels, spreading Potter’s arse cheeks apart and sliding in the first finger, and his moan is drowned out by the needy sound that erupts from Potter’s mouth as he collapses back onto the bed at the first intrusion. Draco’s done this to himself a million times, had other men do it to him, and yet nothing could have prepared him for the way it feels to press a part of himself inside of someone else’s body.

By the time he adds a second, and then a third finger, Potter is writhing beneath him, not attempting to be quiet at all as he says exactly what he wants — _deeper, more, faster, fuck can you crook them like that again, add another._ Potter is captivating, there is no other word for it. His hair splayed on the pillow, his eyes intensely focused on Draco, his body taut and desperate and his cock jutting out practically begging for attention.

Draco wonders if this is why people have always wanted to fuck him—because it makes them feel powerful. He cannot deny the power he feels as he presses inside of Potter’s body slowly, mesmerized by the catches in Potter’s breathing as he wraps his legs around Draco’s waist and begs for more.

Once he’s fully seated he stops moving, not sure if he’s giving Potter or himself a chance to adjust. Draco leans down easily to steal a kiss, one hand braced on either side of Potter’s head. Potter just groans, sucking Draco’s lip into his mouth and clenching around him.

“Fuck, Potter, if you want this to last more than thirty seconds—”

“Don’t care. Need you. Fuck, we’ll just do it again. And again, fuck just fucking move please.”

Draco can do nothing but obey the request, pulling his hips back until he’s almost all the way out before pressing back in again, slow and hard. Potter nearly screams, his fingers sure to bruise Draco’s forearms. They move like that for long minutes, Potter’s pleas filing his ears like a song.

“Merlin, just — ah, faster.”

“Fuck, I’m close.”

Potter swallows, nodding. “Me too.”

Draco wants to see Potter come, wants to know what it's like to see him fall over the edge while he’s buried so far inside of him it's almost hard to breathe. “Touch yourself, Potter. Touch yourself while I fuck you.”

“Ah, fucking hell,” Potter whispers softly, as if speaking louder would take more energy than he has. Draco’s thrusts become erratic the second Potter begins to stroke himself, his ability to focus ruined by the sight of Potter’s head thrown back in abandonment as he fists his cock.

It’s too much, watching Potter run his thumb through the slit of his own cock as whispers Malfoy’s name over and over almost like a prayer. But the tipping point comes when Potter crests over the edge, his arse clenching around Draco’s cock with a strangled moan on his lips as his come shoots between their bodies.

Draco drops his head to Potter’s shoulder, clutching desperately at the other man’s hips as he slams into him harder than before, and it only takes two determined thrusts before he’s coming with a cry that he tries and fails to stifle by shoving his face against Potter’s neck.

They stay like that until Draco’s legs begin to cramp, and even then he doesn’t move, can’t make himself pull out of Potter’s body or disentangle their limbs, wants to remain connected to Potter like this for as long as possible

He can’t take his gaze off of Potter’s face, off the tender way he’s looking back at Draco. Can’t stop himself from thinking about the way their sharp edges don’t seem quite so sharp together. He knows Potter is probably going to drive him crazy, that he won’t ever let him get away with anything, and will ask more of him than anyone else would ever dare, and yet he finds himself wanting to drive Potter crazy right back, wants to be held to higher standards than anyone else has ever dared, and mostly to give more of himself than he ever thought he could.

It is not, he thinks, that they fit together like missing pieces, but perhaps that they fit side by side, allowing them each to be who they are without needing to change.

He doesn’t know how the future will feel, or how they’ll navigate the dark, painful corners of their past. He does not know if Potter will be forever, but he knows he’d like to try, because for the first time in his life, Draco wants something more than he fears it.

“Alright?” Potter whispers.

“Never better,” Draco answers, and it is the truth. Potter is his truth.

In this moment, it is not about who they were, or what they might be, but who they _are_. And in this moment they are infinite.

**Author's Note:**

> How to weave consent throughout this fic was something I gave a lot of thought to. The prompt made me think not only about how consent was an ongoing thing but also how a person's personal upbringing might impact how they viewed both giving and receiving consent. Looking at how Harry and Draco would view the importance and necessity of consent was really interesting (and a challenge!), and forced me to really look at things both in fic and in real life.


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